


Pedestal

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-13 00:58:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18458198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: "Honestly I ain't even sure you're the same species as the rest of us. It's fucked up how fit you are."Harry gives him a funny look, hovering somewhere strange between reproachful and amused. "You have the most astounding talent for making a compliment sound like an accusation.""Well, you got an astounding talent for fighting like Gene Kelly dances."





	Pedestal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samanthahirr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/gifts).



> Kingsman 2 never existed. What sequel?
> 
> Harry's wearing something like this:

When you grow up around the people and streets that Eggsy did, you see fights all the time, and they're ugly as fuck.

He was already used to it before he was even out of primary school: he'd be heading home from the shops and find people brawling in a stairwell over some real or imaginary disrespect, blood and teeth spraying every direction, or he'd hide under his covers at night trying desperately to muffle his sobbing while Dean screamed like a banshee and threw plates and beer bottles and fists at his mum. One time out riding bikes with Ryan and Jamal they found a dead body dumped behind a skip, hands hacked off at the wrists and gashes sliced from lips to ears then roughly sewn back together with bristly twine that covered his mouth and cheeks like bloodsoaked barbed wire. Rumours floated around for years about that one— _that's what you get when you lie and steal_. Obviously being expected to lie and steal for Dean followed some other nebulous set of rules.

So not exactly the ideal environment for a young boy to flourish, but it did at least get him used to chaos.

The fight thunders on around him while the glowing red numbers on the countdown clock flick ever closer to zero. He's still aware of everything—needs to be, in case the fight tilts in favour of the enemy and they break past the others to come for him as well—but the crunches and yells sound like a film playing through a speaker in another room. Eggsy breathes, measured and slow, listening to Merlin's calm voice in his earpiece and following every methodical instruction to hold and snip until at last the bomb is secure.

"Good work, Gawain," Merlin tells him, audibly relieved despite never once letting on that he was nervous in the slightest, and Eggsy gives him a double thumbs up in front of his glasses so he'll see. "Now go and give the old man a hand. It's time to come home."

Blotting his sweaty palms on the fabric of his suit, Eggsy stands up from his crouch by the dead bomb and turns at the same time, a balletic sort of movement that sends the lower half of his jacket twirling out around his waist like a girl in a circle skirt and reveals the gun holstered at his hip. He draws it, shoots two men roaring towards him with perfect one-two pops in the forehead, then allows himself a second to take in the scene and figure out where he's needed. Lancelot, quick as a flashing pinball, is rocketing between three men, dodging their guns and neatly slitting the arteries in their necks with a tiny silver knife pulled from her boot. Percival is cornered but handling it perfectly well, using the staggering body of a man he just shot in the chest to step up and somersault over the heads of his fellows so they just end up shooting each other in their confusion. And Galahad is—well, Harry is doing what Harry does, and not for the first time Eggsy thinks wildly _only Merlin would fucking dare call him 'old man' and suggest he needs anything even approaching the idea of help_.

It would be so fucking easy for Harry to show off, but he never does. He doesn't need to. The way he manouevres is so efficient that it looks choreographed, like the people he fights are in on the performance and have been learning their steps for weeks, when really it's just that there's nothing in the observable universe that moves faster than his exceptional mind. He seems to know what they're going to do even before they do, anticipating feints and blocking punches that come at him from every direction. With one clever twist of the arm he breaks a neck without even looking what he's doing, steals the man's gun as he's collapsing, spins a a flawless roundhouse kick into the gut of another, steals his gun as well, makes the split-second calculations to take in the speed and motion of two more men trying to come at him from the sides, shoots them both. Neatly he adjusts his crooked cuff, as though he's doing nothing more strenuous than getting dressed in the morning, and taps the side of his watch to send a stun dart into the neck of the man he kicked, who stops heaving for breath and clutching himself and sinks into a dead faint at Harry's feet.

Silence. The room is full of the stink of gunshots and blood, and thrums with the satisfaction of a job well done.

"Right," Alastair says when the moment's run its course, unspooling a rope from somewhere about his person to start tying up the unconscious man. "Let's get this poor blighter to Merlin for interrogation and go home."

"Yeah, I'm fucking gagging for a bath and a wank," Eggsy announces, "not necessarily in that order."

"Sounds good," Roxy says, finally able to retrieve the gun that one of the men managed to wrestle out of her hand earlier. Laughter tinges her words, and she does her best to wipe some of the blood spray off her face with the cleanest bit of sleeve. "I feel disgusting. Galahad, I can't believe you don't have a _speck_ on you."

"Well," Harry says modestly, or at least with the sort of faux-modesty he seems to think it's polite to attempt whether he actually feels it or not. "Practice makes perfect, as they say."

 

* * *

 

And that, for some reason, is what hooks itself onto some weird jagged little place in Eggsy's mind and keeps him awake for hours and hours.

Bone-weary and unwilling to spend another half an hour in traffic to get to his own house, he helps himself to Roxy's spare bedroom, one of her luxuriously fluffy towels, and some rose-scented bath products that are probably far too expensive to be smearing so liberally over his crack and balls with a sponge. Blood and sweat scrubbed away and flushed down the plughole, he sprawls starfish-shaped across the bed in the buff and hauls the rustling feather duvet over himself, intending nothing but a good ten hours of oblivion.

Apparently his brain—and his dick, and the line that connects the two—has other plans, and there's not very much he can do about that when he's asleep.

In his dream, Eggsy's watching Harry fight again: jacket off this time, cufflinks abandoned and white sleeves rolled up to his elbows so that every time he hurls himself into another punch Eggsy can see the slide and flex of muscles under his tanned skin. The people he's fighting are blurry; it's as if Eggsy's brain can't be bothered filling in the unimportant details like that when it could be painting every atom of Harry's whirling body instead like Rossetti with his brushes. His trousers, the light grey wool tailored to him like a second skin, pull tight over his spectacular backside every time he spins another kick at one of the faceless enemy. More of them attack, four then six then a dozen or more all surrounding Harry at once, but they're still no match for him and Eggsy can only watch, dazed and almost drunk on it, as he smashes heads together and drives his elbow into windpipes and kicks and flips and punches and his shirt is rucking up out of his waistband and Eggsy can see the long sweating indentation of his spine—

"Oh _shit_ ," Eggsy mutters in dismay when he wakes to find his cock glued to his stomach with drying come.

Roxy catches him early in the morning trying to sneak the duvet cover and sheet into the washing machine. She eyes him, one brow raised sharply, as she's getting juice and bacon out of the fridge, but she doesn't say anything. She never has to. That flawless eyebrow arch is enough to get any bastard talking, and not only in an interrogation room.

"Pissed myself," he says. "Sorry."

The other eyebrow slowly raises to match the other, and Eggsy folds.

"Dreamed about Harry kicking people's shit in and jizzed in my sleep like a fucking twelve year old."

That makes her grin as she's rummaging through the bread bin for the least stale leftovers. "Understandable. He's lovely to look at."

Eggsy sits on the nearest stool and slumps over the island, misting the granite countertop with the breath that huffs out with his best beleaguered groan. "What am I gonna do, Rox?"

"The same as you've been doing for the last two years, I expect," she says as she's unhooking a frying pan from the rail above Eggsy's head. "Nothing."

He can't even be annoyed, because she's right. Funny how you can dangle one-armed off the side of the Burj Khalifa a hundred and fifty floors up in the middle of a fight without breaking a sweat and yet still be the world's most fucking embarrassing coward.

 

* * *

 

On a mission in Hong Kong, there's a fight on a skyscraper rooftop beneath an indigo night sky that fades into a blur of every colour from the city lights far below. It's like some glossy action film, planned and practiced to scalpel-point precision, but really it's just Harry. Eggsy wonders if he ever gets bored of this, whether all the fights start to blend together after these thirty-some years of winning them. Wonders if Harry ever thinks even fleetingly about starting to take things easy. He could, now he knows Kingsman is in much better hands than it ever was when he had to fight Chester King on every front as well as all the world's would-be destroyers. The old Gawain did, moving to a role in training and mission control instead of the stuff that made his joints ache for longer and longer every time. Bors has started making occasional wistful comments about how nice it might be just to potter in the garden sometimes.

But on that rooftop in Hong Kong when all seven of the attackers are sprawled dead or unconscious on the grimy concrete, Eggsy holds his fist out and Harry gives him a victory bump of the knuckles, and the smile that glints in his eyes for the briefest moment before he masks it again makes him look exhilarated, like he's high.

It's the same look Eggsy sees in his own face later, his bright eyes and flushed cheeks and wet open mouth reflected unavoidably in their hotel bathroom as he tries to crank one out to the memory in a believable amount of time and pretend he was just pissing.

 

* * *

 

"Is it a fight fetish or something?" Roxy asks on their next sleepover night.

Eggsy pokes awkwardly at the doner meat in his kebab with the wooden chip shop fork and says, "No, pretty sure at this point it's just a Harry fetish."

 

* * *

 

He never expects that resolving things might be as simple as discovering a fetish of Harry's and ramming his own into it like the last triumphant jigsaw puzzle piece.

"Oh _nice_ ," Eggsy says approvingly when Harry comes sauntering into a meeting five minutes late wearing a brand new suit. It's dark blue with a cobalt overcheck, subtle enough still to be Harry-level classy but bright enough that it's half a step more adventurous than he usually gets with his tailoring choices.

Harry takes the seat beside him and says, "Well, thank you very much, Eggsy," before Merlin gives him a dagger stare and shuts him up.

 _Srsly_ , Eggsy taps in silent morse code against the back of Harry's wrist. Harry cocks his head just slightly and glances down to show he's understood, and when Eggsy adds _lookin fine af mate_ he hears just the faintest suggestion of laughter, a sound that's barely there on Harry's next exhale but still makes Eggsy's heart do that stupid fluttering thing it always seems to indulge in around Harry.

That's an interesting one to turn over in his mind in bed that night. Harry's pleased sideways glance. The dimples that appeared in his cheeks. The dimples that appear in his cheeks _every time_ he's complimented. The way his eyes sometimes get that momentary hot, bright, fierce look in them when he's told how good he looks or how well he's doing something, no different to the way he looks when he's brawling with a dozen trained killers and winning.

 

* * *

 

The experiment begins next time they're in the gym together.

There's something curiously lovely about Harry in workout clothes. He doesn't seem able to bring himself to wear _shorts_ even here, but soft grey marl trackie bottoms on those nine-mile-long legs are every bit as gorgeous as any of his flawlessly tailored suits. There are still faint right-angle creases on his white t-shirt, suggesting that he's just taken it out of a folded three-pack from Marks and stuffed it straight in his gym bag. It makes him look new from the waist up, a vaguely funny and slightly ridiculous sort of contrast with the old black trainers he favours.

"Two weeks off and you're still here at dawn?" Eggsy says. He sits up on his weight bench and swipes a trickle of sweat off his forehead, winning a silent bet with himself about which machine Harry's going to choose first. It's the treadmill, like always.

Harry faffs with the controls and starts a slow paced jog. "When you're a hundred and five, like me, you'll want to be strict with yourself about keeping on top of your health as well."

"Bollocks," Eggsy scoffs. "Like you ain't just naturally in better shape than every last fucker in this building. Honestly I ain't even sure you're the same species as the rest of us. It's fucked up how fit you are."

Harry gives him a funny look, hovering somewhere strange between reproachful and amused. "You have the most astounding talent for making a compliment sound like an accusation."

"Well, you got an astounding talent for fighting like Gene Kelly dances."

He didn't actually mean to say that out loud, but his brain-to-mouth filter has a nasty habit of failing when he's tired and he didn't get a lot of sleep last night between a late return from his mission and his habitual double-come wank to elaborate fantasies about Harry's massive hands.

"I'm sure Gene Kelly didn't take much time off, either." Harry speeds up his treadmill, picking up the pace with a lithe, fluid sort of grace. His cheeks are flushed already. In anybody else Eggsy would assume it's from the exertion, but... not Harry. Not this soon after starting.

Butterflies explode in his stomach as something absurd and unexpected and magical begins to shuffle itself into focus.

He shifts to the end of his bench, slinging his towel around his sweaty neck and sitting forward, forearms on his thighs, watching Harry run like it's a performance art piece in some wanky gallery. For a moment Harry doesn't acknowledge him, though he must have noticed the movement, then he glances sideways and it feels somehow like permission, or an invitation.

"Probably not," Eggsy agrees. His mouth feels weird and numb around the words, like pins and needles without the prickling. "Bet it feels good, being the best in the world at something. Bet you feel like a fucking god when you're doing it. If I was you or Gene Kelly I wouldn't take a break neither."

"Eggsy," Harry says. His voice has that same breathless, laughing tone as it did in the meeting.

"Do you like me saying this?" Might as well be blunt about it, now it's started. "You like me telling you how fucking amazing you are?"

For a moment Harry doesn't answer and Eggsy wonders whether he's gone and royally fucked up here. Then he hears, quietly, "Yes. Very much. Isn't that the most dreadful vanity?"

A long, careful exhale. "Nope. I'm gonna keep saying it til you're done running. Then I'm gonna say it while you do whatever else you gotta do. And I hope you wanna go for a swim after this cos I'm fucking gagging to tell you how good you look in them slutty little trunks you wear."

"Maybe not the _slutty_ part," Harry says, dimples imploding either side of his grin. "Say nice things."

It's infectious, that smile. Eggsy doesn't even bother trying to stop his own. "Alright, yeah. I'll treat you nice as you like, long as you keep on showing me how good you are at this."

"At... running?"

"At _everything_. Look how gorgeous you are right now." There are mirrors across the room and Harry glances over obediently, first at his own reflection and then at Eggsy's. "I fucking swear to god, that waist on you. If I come over there right now bet my hands could almost meet around it." They couldn't, of course—Harry's slender and athletic, not some Victorian lady strapped into a whalebone corset—but this is all edging closer and closer to dirty talk territory and since when has that had to make perfect sense? "Look at them muscles in your arms. How many necks you think you broke with them arms? How many times you shot some mass murdering psycho? How many lives you saved? You're so strong. And you're brave, you're braver than anyone, and smarter. Harry, if I ever feel like one tenth as good at this job as you I swear down I'm gonna die happy."

There's a few electronic beeps, Harry prodding at the buttons on his machine to make it slow and finally stop. When it does and he turns around, the flush in his cheeks is far more than such gentle exercise could possibly cause.

"Never seen you blush before," Eggsy says, gazing up at Harry. His voice is low, a quiet throaty secret sort of murmur even though there's nobody else around so early. "I mean, from fighting and working out, yeah. Never from being told you're pretty."

That makes Harry laugh again, startled and hushed like he's afraid he might scare off this whole weird new mood if he reacts too much to it. "You've never called me pretty. I don't believe anyone ever has."

"Yeah, well, I'm doing it now. You're the prettiest thing I ever seen, you know that? That look you get in your eyes when you know you're fucking killing it. And it don't make no difference if it's fighting or weights or just you walking round like you own the place, you know when you're doing good and it makes you look like you just been fucked."

" _God_ ," Harry says on a wobbly exhale, then looks surprised with himself like he's not used to making accidental noises. And that's probably true, he's not used to it at all. His control over himself, every bit of what he does and says and portrays, is so honed and faultless that losing it even for just this moment is a lightning strike rocketing through him. "Is that," he begins, then hesitates and just looks at Eggsy curiously. Eggsy stares right back, chin raised defiantly, bold as anything. No point getting shy now he's gone and said the f word, right? From Harry's flushed face, Eggsy's gaze tracks a slow path downward: over his neck, and the hollow at the base of it, over the gentle curves and hard lines of his chest and stomach to the beginnings of a fairly prominent bulge in his trousers.

"Bet you got a pretty cock too," Eggsy says, still so quiet, almost a whisper. "Bet it's nice and tall and fucking beautiful just like the rest of you. Look at it just—" He stops, swallows hard, doesn't look away, and Harry remains statue-still, just letting him stare. "Fuck, I wanna touch it. You gonna let me, yeah? Let me get my mouth all over you and show you how perfect you are?"

He kind of expects a very Harry-ish wry reply—a " _let_ rather implies it's not something I want when I clearly do" or something of the sort—but maybe they're beyond that now. "Yes," Harry says, soft and marvelling. "Please." Then, slightly frowning and suddenly perturbed, "Here?"

"What, where Merlin could walk in any second? Fuck no!" Jittery with nerves now, as jumped-up as when he's still surfing on adrenaline from a mission or surviving on an unholy amount of Red Bull after a few too many late nights, Eggsy springs up from his bench and cocks his head at the door, and Harry follows him to the showers, though not into the same stall. As if they're thinking the same thought, the way they do when they're fighting together back to back on a mission, they wash and dress hastily so as not to cause an absolute scandal if they meet anyone in the corridors and hurry to the lift, up several floors to the agents' lodgings.

The whole way, Eggsy keeps up his quiet stream of consciousness right in Harry's ear, rising on tiptoe in his winged trainers to reach it: _You smell so fucking good, you always smell so expensive, my mouth's fucking watering just thinking about getting a taste of you, wish you could see your face right now, I never seen anything like you in my whole life, you're like the first time I went to Florence, you're that fucking beautiful, you belong on a plinth in the Louvre behind red velvet ropes, I can't believe you're actually real, people just don't look like you, people ain't got hands like this, people don't just wear trousers like this, who fucking gave you the right, it's obscene, it's just fucking unbelievable how much I wanna kiss your perfect face_.

Harry's staring at him, feverish and intoxicated. Even in his most casual day-off clothes, jeans and shirt and cardigan and no tie, he usually looks like something from a magazine shoot, but not right now. His eyes are too bright, the flush in his cheeks is spilling over to his ears, his lower lip is wet with saliva from being licked and bitten, and that's the final straw, really: that sparkle of the lift light reflected on Harry's pretty parted mouth.

"Can I?" Eggsy murmurs. His breath is warm and damp on Harry's cheek, noses bumping, close enough to do it if one of them only moves a fraction, but there's something about this last teetering moment of anticipation that he wants to drag out for as long as they can stand it. "Is that alright, if I kiss you?"

But the lift dings and the doors swoosh open before Harry can answer, which is probably for the best really because something like this calls for a better location than a cramped little lift where they're probably being spied on by cameras and some bored or scandalised monitor in the security wing downstairs. Harry deserves to be kissed in the opulent interior of the rooms that have been his second home for the last three decades.

"Can I?" Eggsy asks again once they're through the door. He crowds Harry up against the back of it, fingers clutching in the soft cashmere collar of his cardigan and rocking up on his toes again to nudge his nose under Harry's chin, breathing deep to get the lavish spicy scent of that glorious soap and aftershave right through his respiratory system. "You smell like fucking royalty, please can I kiss you?"

" _Yes_ ," Harry says, breathless and laughing again, but it's not like anything's funny, it's more like he's overwhelmed and the only outlet his body can find for it is this mild hysteria. When Eggsy finally kisses him it escapes from his nose instead, giddy pleasure wrapped up in a long exhale—and it turns out, to Eggsy's absolute delight, that Harry is a _grabber_ when he's being kissed. His hands, those gorgeous huge capable hands that have been such major stars in Eggsy's filthy daydreams these last several months, paw needily at the back of Eggsy's t-shirt, wrinkling the fabric, searching for the skin beneath, sliding up to clutch and tug at his hair.

"You're so good at this," Eggsy mumbles, muffled and barely coherent against Harry's mouth, "fucking knew you would be, you're good at everything." He reaches between the press of their bodies, trembling fingers working at the buttons on Harry's shirt then resting there on his skin to feel the thunderous pulse of his heartbeat. "Feel your heart going. You really want this, hey? You want me telling you how good you are at this? At everything?"

"Only if it's true," Harry says, and this time Eggsy's the one who laughs, quiet and amazed against Harry's ravenous mouth.

"You kidding me? I'm gonna fucking die right here, you got no idea how long I wanted to say all this. And..." He shuts up, going for Harry's mouth again, hands moving to cup his jaw and a thumb slipping by accident into one of Harry's cheek dimples. _That means he's smiling again_ , Eggsy thinks wildly, _I'm kissing him on his smile, this ain't real, I can't believe this is actually real_.

Harry seems to have found his favourite place, spending a solid two or three minutes just sucking and kissing and licking at Eggsy's lower lip until it tingles. "And?" he prompts softly.

"And you _like it_ ," Eggsy manages,"I wanna tell you all this stuff and you wanna hear it."

With a disbelief that's almost exasperation, Harry says, "Darling, I'd have to be fucking _dead_ not to want to hear you say these things."

"As if anyone could. They can try and try and try but like anyone's ever gonna get anywhere. They never will, you're too smart"—Eggsy starts using kisses as punctuation here, a line of them from Harry's cheek down his chin and neck to the skin revealed by the splayed open halves of his shirt—"and too strong for them, and brave, and brilliant, and just, you're just the fucking _best_ , I can't even tell you, you're amazing, it's unreal, I ain't scared of nothing when you're there, what's even the point?"

"I'm scared I'll wake up any moment now," Harry admits, though the slightly dazed grin he's wearing suggests he's not actually afraid of that at all. He finds Eggsy's chin with his fingertips, drawing his face up for another lingering kiss. "While we're on the subject, how am I supposed to believe that _you're_ real? Flinging yourself at me like this, saying all these excessively kind things—"

"Excessive," Eggsy repeats scornfully, and presses himself with an insistent roll of the hips against Harry's cock, as hard and hot as his own. "Feel this and then tell me I don't mean any of it."

" _God_ ," Harry says again. His voice cracks halfway through the word, and Eggsy can see the slow slide of his throat as he swallows. "I want everything about you. I crave you."

Eggsy finds Harry's wrist, encircles it with his fingers like a shackle, and slides his hand down the front of his trackies and boxers. "Feel that?" he murmurs, almost choking on his own flooding spit when Harry slides his fingers around the soaked end of Eggsy's cock. "Feel what you been doing to me every fucking single day since me and you met. Feel how hard I get any time I think about you."

Harry's pressing fumbled frantic kisses to Eggsy's cheekbone now, fingers slipping and curling around his cock and starting to stroke even though the angle is weird and the two elastic waistbands are pinning his forearm down against Eggsy's hip. "Tell me," he demands, though he inflects it more like an entreaty.

"Harry, I can't breathe." Everything's too hot, his clothes feel suddenly sticky and itchy against his skin, and it's ridiculous to be doing this here when just feet away there's a king size bed. Eggsy hauls his t-shirt over his head and throws it on the carpet somewhere, treads on the backs of his trainers to prise them off his feet, then takes a few steps backward across the room still with Harry's hand trapped down his trousers. "Get these off me and come to bed, yeah?"

Harry strips him with the same practiced efficiency that he strips a gun. His own clothes stay on, though he slips off his glasses and tosses them on the bedside table because they keep getting in the way of all the greedy, wanton kissing he wants to do, and that is beyond fine with Eggsy, because:

"Dreamed about this," he says, hauling Harry down on top of his naked body by two impatient handfuls of cardigan. "Sleep dream _and_ daydream. Couldn't stop thinking about you always wearing clothes you deserve. Always cashmere and silk and merino. All this lush fabric on your skin all the time. Been driving me fucking crazy thinking about it."

Very slowly, softly, Harry draws the sleeve of his cardigan down the side of Eggsy's cheek and jaw, down his chest, and Eggsy repays him with a throaty, helpless little moan as every hair on his body surges to stand up on end at the rushing flood of goosebumps set off all up and down his limbs.

"You're an _extravagance_ ," he manages, thrilling in the way Harry's breath goes all rapid and hitching every time he says something new. "You're a luxury. You're Versailles and velvet and rococo and a night at the Lanesborough, and diamonds, and Araki sushi. I can't afford you. Who could?"

Harry's laughing again, quiet and marvelling, still tracing his sleeve over Eggsy's bare skin to make him shiver. "You're ridiculous." He follows with a kiss against Eggsy's breastbone, a quick hungry glance up at his face as if to say _please don't stop though_ , then he begins kissing a trail down the swells of pecs and abs as Eggsy lets his mouth run wild again.

" _Fuck_ you're so good at this, you have to tell me who taught you all this cos I wanna send them flowers, or is this all just you? Bet you just come to life like this age fifty like some old creation myth, all fucking flawless just knowing everything. You're perfect. Harry, just—" He starts to say _fuck_ again and stumbles over the fricative when Harry's tongue darts out to touch the skin low down on his belly, his chin gently bumping the tip of Eggsy's cock. "Please," Eggsy says instead, " _please_ , bet your mouth's just as fucking good as the rest of you, yeah? Show me, I wanna feel you, let me—"

Another strangled swear as Harry's mouth opens hot and wet around him, the flat of his tongue rubbing tenderly across the head of Eggsy's cock. Harry curls his fingers around again, beginning to suck messily enough that he spills saliva all down Eggsy's shaft, easing the grip and slide of his hand. This part was never solid enough in Eggsy's filthy fantasies, it was always just a vague blur of heat and shivers. The real thing is making him _writhe_ —or at least it would, except that Harry's other hand is holding him down hard at the hip as if to remind him of everything he'd been praising before.

"Can't believe how strong you are," Eggsy prattles on madly, fighting against Harry's hold on him out of some wild desperation to get his cock deeper into Harry's throat. He never thought _this_ would be a thing he'd be so into, not after a lifetime of scrapping himself out of every gutter he got thrown in, but the thrill of being held down like this _by Harry_ is making his blood thunder and there's sweat starting to prickle on every bit of bare skin that Harry's cashmere and denim and insistent, heavy forearm is pressing against. Eggsy swallows hard—conjuring up a daydream of Harry's thick, dripping cock in his throat feels suddenly second nature now and his mouth floods trying to taste what's not there—and gasps, "Wish you could see yourself like I do, can't believe you're actually touching me, you're so fucking good at this, you're beautiful, nobody in the whole world's ever been as gorgeous as you are sucking my dick."

He feels the delicious little rumble of Harry humming some kind of sound around his cock, agreement or thanks or just some wordless noise of pleasure like he's living for this, like he's been waiting for it his whole life, and it's enough to rocket things towards the finish.

"I'm gonna come," he starts to say, repeating it, fumbling, struggling to breathe. The words all roll over each other to explode from him like a firework when Harry's beautiful, clever fingers stroke over his balls, sodden with spit and precome, and he swallows Eggsy's cock right to the back of his greedy, incredible throat. "Harry, I'm coming, you're gonna make me come all in that pretty mouth."

When it happens it's nothing at all like the way he always wanks himself to a furiously speedy end, but _slow_ , surging heat rolling wave-like though him until all his extremities are tingling and he starts pulsing into Harry's insatiable mouth so hard that he can't even yell about it. Every cry and moan and word of praise seems to lodge tight in his chest, only loosened enough to tremble out of him in a ragged little sigh when Harry fucking _smiles_ around his cock, sated eyes gazing up the length of Eggsy's body to pin him like a butterfly.

"Come here," Eggsy tries to say, tugging weakly at the shoulder of Harry's cardigan. It doesn't seem to come out entirely right, but of course Harry understands anyway: he shifts up the bed to take Eggsy in his arms and kisses him again, the taste of the come he swallowed lingering stickily at the corner of his lips.

"I hope that lived up to expectations," he says gravely, though there's a dancing glint of laughter in his eyes to show he's not actually concerned about such a stupid question in the slightest. "You had me on a bit of a pedestal there. Always a precarious place to be."

"Yeah, well, that's your new home," Eggsy tells him. He lets his heavy eyes slip shut for a moment, fingers luxuriating in the soft black cashmere of Harry's cardigan and rubbing the shawl collar edge against his cheek like it's a comfort blanket, murmuring, "Oh my god. Oh my fuck. Just, gimme a minute and I'll pay you back but I feel like I just been run over by a bus. You ain't getting down off that pedestal now. I've installed you there for good."

"Hm," Harry says consideringly, tracing one fingertip gently down the line of Eggsy's jaw. "What if I tell you reciprocation turns out to be unnecessary since I finished in my underpants around the time you likened me to a sushi dinner? You're very, very good at compliments."

Eggsy's laughter is quiet and disbelieving, the latter not in an unkind way but the sort that comes with not quite being able to accept your good luck. "You're such a freak. I love it. You're amazing."

It feels a very long time later when Eggsy forces himself to open his sleepy eyes, and when he does he finds Harry watching him from the other pillow with an expression of such fondness and wonder that Eggsy feels goosebumpy again.

"There's room for two on this pedestal if you're ready to hear some thoughts about a young man I know," Harry says softly, and Eggsy pokes his fingertip into the dimple that appears in Harry's cheek to herald the arrival of his smile.


End file.
